"But she wouldn't let a hair of Miss Kit's head be hurt for all that." "How do you know that, so long as I could be made to suffer by it?" "Where are they now, then?" I asked eagerly. "Till lately she was in Dublin, in the family of Lord Edward, who, traitor as he is, is at least a gentleman, and a distant kinsman into the bargain. She was happy there; and what sort of place was this to bring a girl to? But look here," said he, getting up and fumbling in a drawer among some papers, "what do you say to this?" and he put a letter, written in a delicate female hand, before me. It read as follows:-- "To Maurice Gorman, Esquire. "Sir,--With great sorrow I inform you that Miss Gorman, while walking yesterday evening in the Park with her attendant McQuilkin, was surrounded by a gang of masked men, and they were both carried away, whither we know not. We are in terrible distress, and sparing no effort to find the dear girl, whom Lord Edward and I had come to love as a sister. Be assured you shall receive such news as there may be. Lord Edward's wrath knows no bounds, and he even risks his own liberty (for he is a marked man) in seeking for them.--I have the honour to be, sir, your obedient servant, Pamela Fitzgerald." "That is from Lady Edward," said his honour. "Now read this." The paper he handed me now was a dirty and illiterate scrawl, without date or signature. "Maris Gorman,--Take note your doghter is in safe hands, and will not be returnd till you take the oth of the Unyted Irishmen and pay 5 hundred pounds sterling to the fund. Allso note that unless you come in quickly, you will be shott like a dog, and the devil help you for a trayter to Ireland." "Now," said he, with a gloomy smile, "you know as much of my daughter's whereabouts as I do." "This is terrible news," said I. "How is it you are not in Dublin at this moment, moving heaven and earth to find her?" He laughed bitterly. "It's easy talking," said he. "In the first place, I should be shot before I reached my own gate; I have been practically a prisoner here for weeks. In the next place, what could I do? Even if I took the oath, where is the money to come from?" "Five hundred pounds is a small sum to a rich man like you." "Whoever calls me rich, lies," said he testily, and with an uneasy gesture which explained to my mind the dilapidated state of the place. Maurice Gorman was not only a poltroon but a miser, and five hundred pounds were worth more to him than his own daughter. "Is nothing being done?" said I. "Have you shown the letter to the authorities, or to Lord Edward?" "What use?" said he. "I am on too ill terms with either to expect their help." "And so you intend to leave that poor girl to her fate?" I cried. "But if you will not move, I will!" "What can I do?" said he wearily. "You know how I am fixed. Perhaps when I am shot they will let her go. Maybe that will be the simplest way out of it, after all."